Arcanum - Of Steamwork and Magic Ch. 18

The constables that flanked him responded with snappy salutes and discipline. Before I could say widdershins, I was seated in the paper strewn office of one Chief Inspector Henderson -- the very halfling who had ordered my release. He puffed on his cigar and spoke in quick, choppy sentences. "Do forgive my boys, they've been looking for a perp-" which I presumed to be a shortening of the common word 'perpetrator' "-on these Whytechurch murders for the past three weeks, ever since ladies of the evening began to end up dead..."

I chuckled. "While I am glad to no longer be a suspect, I would like to know how and why you assumed I was innocent?"

"Well," Chief Inspector Henderson said. "Let us begin. Firstly, the body was still warm and had been cut up with a scalpel, just like all the others, with the organs removed. The organs are not on your person, nor do you have a single drop of blood on you, save for what you walked in. Secondly, the door was shut and locked at the time of the screaming and three onlookers placed you arriving after the screaming came. Thirdly, the green blood: None of you have a wound and none of you bleed green either way." He puffed on his cigar. "And furthermore, there's no motive, no indication of why a group of five random people and a dog all happened to be the ones killing prostitutes over the past three weeks, doubly so when you, Mr. Cog, only arrived here on a clipper two days ago."

"I see you deserve your title, Mr. Inspector," I said, my voice dry.

"Quite," Henderson said. "Which leads to the question I want to ask you: Did you see anything in there?"

I nodded. "Aye. There was a kind of...dark figure. I believe it entered the room through the sewer pipes -- it was able to contort itself to an inhuman degree, reaching through the pipes and crawling through them. Furthermore, I don't know if you've seen this, but it wrote its name on the ground in its own blood: L'anamelach."

Henderson slammed both palms onto his short desk, causing papers to leap upwards, then settle down. His bushy eyebrows shot to the roof of his hairline and he spluttered. "That's a demonic name! Bloody thunder!" He scowled. "I hate demons. I hate demons. The last demon who caused trouble around here, five years back, do you know how much damn hassle they were?" He shook his head, then slowly sat back. "Not only did they kill three of my men, which was bad enough, but the damn thing wouldn't get killed normally. Oh no, a demon can't possibly get polished off by a normal gun, oh no, that'd be far too simple! No! I ended up stomping through a bloody marsh for three days, answering riddles from old elven broads, avoiding damned traps, getting half-eaten by mosquito. Then the blade itself was nearly as much trouble as the demon. It was all 'slay the unclean' this and 'purge this world in flames' that. But I stuck the demon with it and you know what I do? I melted that damn blade down in a forge and I had it made into my bidet!" He harrumphed.

"Oh," I said. "We might have been able to use that dagger."

Henderson paused, mid puff in his cigar. "Ah bloody hell."

"Well," I said. "Do you know much about this demon?"

"No..." Henderson scowled. "The last demonologist, a scary fellow named Ethan Rayne, got himself eaten or turned to evil or something. I kind of lost track of him." He shook his head. "But there's a friend of his I've corresponded with in Tarant, ever since these killings started. I had the idea that they might have been demonic in nature, so I made sure to get in touch with him."

"Who was this demononlogist?" I asked. "My friends and I are quite concerned about this murder..." I nodded. The Curse of T'sen-Ang was, for now, a slow burn threat. The dark elves and their machinations operated on a larger time scale than human concerns. But this demon might slay another dozen prostitutes in the time it took us to go to Roseborough and back. Tarant, meanwhile, was a mere week away by clipper!

"Giles!" Henderson said. "Professor Rupert Giles, of the Tarantian university."

I smiled. "Well, then, I'd like to offer my services in bringing this blackguard to justice."

I'm sorry, Maggie. Your Iron Clan may have to wait, I thought.

"Well!" Henderson clapped his hands together. "That'd leave me to secure the sewers. Surely, I can call upon the royal mages to at least contain this L'anamelach into a specific part of the sewer, so he won't threaten anyone while you're gone."

I nodded. "Capital!"

I found my companions at the front of the police station, each looking rather irritated at their short confinement. Virginia, in particular, was glaring mulishly at the officer who I recognized as being the one who had taken our thumb-prints. I clapped my hand on her shoulder, but before I could speak, Henderson harrumphed beside me. "Now, I'll tell you this, Mr. Cog. You've signed up for a nasty, brutish, ugly job. Why, I don't doubt you will be mucking around in some ancient sewer, built by a barmy half-mad mage, full of demons and undead and elementals. It'll be called something like the Tower of Durlag and you'll need to find the Blade of Tommyblather and it'll just be the biggest damn hassle out there."

I chuckled. "Come now, Inspector. You're surely being a touch dire, aren't you?"

Henderson did not look amused.

***

The clipper Dragon's Breath arrived in the smoky city of Tarant during a thick snow storm, which shrouded the vast city in a pea soup of fog and ice crystals. The date? The 25^th of December. The new year was creeping towards us, and I reflected as I stood beside the railings at the prow of the ship, how strange it was that I would still be traveling after such a time. And there remained so many questions to answer -- so many mysteries. However, I felt as if the time I had spent traveling had...toughened me.

I was a damn better shot than I had ever been on the Morhiban -- and my studies continually bore new fruit. Why, I had already had an idea for a few tonics, based off studying a magazine on chemical pharmacology. And during the travels, each of my companions had grown more honed. Virginia definitely held her blade with more skill, and her mastery of both conveyance and white necromancy both were a sight higher. Sally was endlessly fond of demonstrating her great physical strength. And 'Magnus', whenever she got a chance, practiced with the Harrower, though she had not yet had a chance to do much more than brandish it at enemies. Even Gillian was showing a better proficiency with melee weapons, considering she was able to lose with grace to Virginia whenever the two sparred.

I wondered what about it was about our adventures had provoked this remarkable growth?

Was it the natural byproduct of so many dangers, of learning so many truths?

Or...

Or was it that the skein of fate itself was twisting to suit some preordained narrative? Was the Silver Lady right? Was I becoming more akin to the Living One the more I walked along this road? For Nasrudin had been a powerful mage...was I becoming just as powerful, but...in my own way? Was I already trapped? I felt trapped, in a way. I could never turn my back, not while monsters like L'anamelach walked the world. Not while Arronax plotted in the Void, planning his return. I shook my head, then started as I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw...not Virginia, to my surprise. Rather, it was Gillian, enveloped in a thick coat and a thicker scarf, her breath fogging the air.

"You all right, sir?" she asked, her voice still faintly twisted by her aristocratic air -- sounding standoffish, despite the several times that we had shared a bed.

"Yeah, just wool gathering," I said, smiling slightly. "Come on. Lets go to the University."

Tarant University was just as impressive when shrouded in fog and snow as it was in a crisp, clean day. We entered into the main building and found it piping warm, thanks to the radiators set up against the walls. At the front of the building, we were directed to Professor Giles' offices by a secretary. Finding his office took some time, as we navigated the old building that sprawled behind the new, the windows feeling increasingly drafty and old until, at last, we came to a small, narrow office tucked between two larger lecture halls. The interior was filled with books and bound scrolls and behind the desk sat a tall, handsome chap with graying hair and a body that looked built for war, but then let to go to seed with his middling age. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and had glasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt, and was currently examining a book, muttering under his breath. "Pictured: Actual size?"

"Ahem," I coughed.

Professor Giles looked up, swinging the book shut. "Yes?" He asked, sounding quite polite despite my green skin and tusks. Then he started. "Oh! Oh good heavens, you're Dr. Cog, aren't you?"

I smiled. "Yes, Professor Giles," I said. "You've read my work?"

"Your Quintarra Journals were fascinating," he said, smiling at me. "Though I do wish you had interacted with more magickal beings -- that's my specialty. Applying the scientific theories to magickal phenomenon. It, ah, is not exactly popular."

"There's an elf in Quintarra who thought very similar," I said, cheerfully.

"So! Dr. Cog, what-" He blinked as I held up my hand.

"Please," I said. "Call my Rayburn."

"Then you may call me Rupert," Professor Giles said, nodding. "So, ah, Rayburn. What brings you to my office?"

"A demon," I said, simply.

"Ah." Professor Giles grew serious. "Let us begin with identification -- do you have a bodily type. Is it bestial, spectral, or humanoid? Do we have an inkling as to what strata of the underworld it came from, or if it is a purely void-based construct. We'll need this information to track down the name in the books I have." He stood. "There's the Scriptora Demono-"

"Please, Rupert!" I said, holding up my hand. "I have his name!"

"Oh!" Professor Giles blinked down at me, then sat down. "Oh, that makes this dreadfully easier."

And yet, for some reason, he sounded less than pleased.

Five minutes later, Giles had gotten out the book that he needed and the two of them pored through the details on L'anamelach. The details were stark and blunt and not entirely comforting: The demon was able to possess and change a mortal body to suit its purposes. "And," Professor Giles said, his voice soft as he read from a scroll. "The demon can only be appeased with the hearts of a thousand innocent victims. He's killed three so far. If he is not banished, then he'll be a nightmare terror for years."

"And here it says..." I paused. Then, slowly, I sighed, reading with a sound of droll resentment. "L'anamelach can only be banished if his possessed shell is slain by the Blade of Xerxes, which is contained within the ancient dungeon known as the Pits of Fire."

"You sound positively dejected, Dr. Cog!" Giles said.

I nodded. "True! Surely, it'll be an adventure!"

"That's the spirit!" Giles exclaimed.

***

We walked along the streets of University Park, towards the factory district so that we might then cut across to the docks. As we walked, snow drifted down from the sleet gray sky, cold and uncaring and oh so very distant. My hands rested in my pockets, and I simply enjoyed the weather and the company of my companions. However, our quiet walk was interrupted by a hideous rattling, clacking noise. It was louder and more metallic than a wheeled cart, and when we turned, we saw the source was a column of twelve Tarantian guardsmen, led by an officer in a brilliant red jacket. At their back was a double wheeled device of steel, brass and wood that was dragged by two men. Only once they had gone past did I recognize it.

It was a mechanized gun -- the exact same kind built by Maxim back in Caladon. It looked shiny and polished, but still bore the dents and dings of actual use. But the men who dragged it were grinning the wolfish grins of men looking forward to a fight. This chilled my blood more than any weather might. Without a word, I started to jog after the soldiers -- followed by my comrades. A distant commotion ahead of us grew louder and louder, until at last, we came to a thin crowd that surrounded what I recognized as the Gilbert Bates' factory. There, several constables were keeping the crowd back, while a short gnome with a clean shaven face and a very tall top hat was standing next to a man in a bright red uniform, similar to the fellow leading up the mechanized gun.

"Out of the way, move it, move it, move it!" The man with the mechanized gun shouted, and the crowd parted with jostles and cries. Soon, the mechanized gun had been set up and the soldiery were fanning out, rifles in their hands. It was then that I saw that the factory had been barred -- the front door was covered with a collection of oil drums, while the windows were shuttered. Not a single lick of smoke emerged from the stacks, and on the second story, I could see furtive figures, watching as the streets filled with death.

"This is unconscionable!" the gnome shouted. "The Industrial Council will have your badge for this, Wheeler!"

"It is not your place to give me orders, Mr. Babcock," the man in the red jacket said. His face was built for sneering complete with a pencil thin mustache and a narrow set to the eyes. His hair was sleet blond and his eyes were the same cold color as the pitiless skies overhead. He stood tall, taller than even me, and as I walked through the crowds in dawning horror, I saw the other officer step up and salute.

"The mechanized gun is in position, Captain Wheeler!"

Captain Wheeler.

The very man who had gunned down orcish protesters a few weeks before!

Mr. Babcock stepped up -- but with his short stature, his attempt to appear intimidating came off quite laughable. "Captain Wheeler, I must insist, you cannot storm that factory without...without direct orders from the Prime Minister. Under the articles of the Tarantian constitution, that is a private factory, owned by one Mr. Bates, is it not? Any attack on it must be seen as an attack upon Mr. Bates himself."

"Oh. I'm sure that Mr. Bates will be glad to have orcish filth removed with great prejudice, Mr. Babcock," Captain Wheeler said, his voice as upper-crust as Gillian's, but dripping with enough sneering scorn to cut through solid steel.

"I wouldn't be so certain, Captain Wheeler," I said, stepping forward, my heart racing. Virginia hurried to step up beside me as Captain Wheeler and Mr. Babcock turned to me. I saw the parliamentary garb that Mr. Babcock was in -- it was the same as many a man and gnome I saw out there. This Mr. Babcock was an MP. And, if I remembered rightly from the papers rightly, he was the only chance we had to save the orcs in that factory. "Dr. Cog," I said. "I represent Mr. Bates in various enterprises."

"It's true," Mr. Babcock said. "Mr. Bates has been financing Dr. Cog's expeditions for a year now, has he not?"

Captain Wheeler sneered. "So, you're Mr. Bates' pet greenskin, hmm?" He eyed me as if I were nothing more than a fly he had found buzzing around his morning croissant. "What does Mr. Bates want done with his factory?"

"He wants," I said, with reasonable accuracy. "For the factory to be returned to operation as quickly as possible. Mechanized guns are not precise and elegant weapons, I'll have you know, Sirrah." I nodded. "If you attack, and those orcs fight back, you'll be scraping them out of every room. Not only will half your men be carried out in stretchers, but every room will be damaged and require Mr. Bates' money -- or the taxpayers -- to repair. Will they not?"

Captain Wheeler sneered. "You have an exceptionally high opinion of these pig-nosed rabble. Orcs are cowards, easily routed and easier still to best with discipline and technology." He sniffed. "Of course, one must expect a certain level of hysteria from a half-breed."

"Captain Wheeler!" Mr. Babcock said, his voice harsh. "You will give Dr. Cog your respect -- he's an accredited technologist."

"And, sir," I said. "There aren't any laws against calling one out on the matter of honor, is there?" I frowned. "So, do you stand by your words, sir?"

Captain Wheeler eyed me, then pursed his lips. "Of course. No disrespect was intended." His voice came out gritted and taut. "But the fact remains, this Daniel Thews is a socialist agitator, an anarchist, and a suspected pederast and sodomite."

"Baseless accusations drummed up by the yellow journalists at the Tarantian!" Mr. Babcock said, thrusting his finger at Captain Wheeler. He turned to me. "All Mr. Thews has ever wanted has been a union for orcish and half-orcish laborers, an end to child labor, and some measure of recompense for those injured or maimed in factory work."

I chuckled. "What a radical," I said, dryly.

Captain Wheeler sneered at me. "While you two discuss anarchy, I shall be doing my job, as a loyal member of this republic." He whistled, then pointed at two of his men. "Sheffer, Taybourn! Cover the right alleyway, let not a one of these greenskins escape." He marched off, to direct the encirclement. I licked my lips, nervousness shaking my hands. I couldn't simply attack the whole Tarantian guard -- but I turned to Mr. Babcock, and saw him regarding me with some measure of hope.

"So, you have a plan, Mr. Babcock?" I whispered.

"Yes I do, Dr. Cog," he said, quietly. "You see, Daniel Thews? He's a half orc." He nodded. "In fact, he is quite unique! His features have a distinctive orcish cast to them, but instead of making him look the dumb brute, it actually gives him the appearance of a swarthy rogue!"

I pursed my lips, raising my eyebrows. Babcock seemed to not notice. Instead, he sighed, putting his hands over his face. He dragged his hands down to his chin. "If we could get him into a courtroom, I have a plan to make his union legal. Currently, the pretext for this slaughter is that laws involving unions, such as they are, cover human unions. Hence why there are guilds for traders and sailors and the like."

I nodded. "And you hope to..." I gasped. "Wait, you hope to argue that Mr. Thews' human side means he is covered under that law!"

"Precisely, Dr. Cog!" Mr. Babcock exclaimed. "And thus, any union he founds would be legal. He'd need to preform some measure of chicanery to also protect full blooded orcs, but I'm sure that Mr. Thews would be more than capable of that." He nodded. "That would also keep that bloodthirsty maniac, Wheeler, off their necks."

"All you need to do is convince Thews to appear in court..." I said, quietly.

"Which you can do, yes?" Mr. Babcock asked, his voice edging towards hope.

I chuckled, then glanced at Virginia, who nodded grimly to me.

"How could I refuse, Mr. Babcock?" I asked.

Wheeler watched with a frown as I and Virginia walked to the front door of the factory. Once we stood before the door, one of the shuttered windows shifted and a voice called through the glass -- gruff and low. "Whose the..." The voice stopped. "Oh! Yer one of us!"

"The name is Rayburn Cog!" I called out. "I'm here to speak to Mr. Thews."

"Let him in!" A voice hissed. The doors pushed forward ever so slightly. The orcs used their great strength to push the oil barrels forward slightly, the heavy barrels squeaking and scraping along the pavement. Once the door was opened a crack, I started forward -- but before I could step fully up to the door, the voice called out: "Wait, wait, first, take yer weapons off and throw them down."

I sighed. Virginia frowned -- but she did not argue as she unstrapped her belt, sliding it off around her hips and set them down. I set my pistol down next to her. Glancing back, I saw that Captain Wheeler was sneering at me. Looking to the door, I saw that it had been opened just a bit more and a full blooded orc stood in the darkness, gesturing to me one handed. I walked forward, Virginia followed behind me, and we entered into the factory. I counted the heads here and quickly saw that there were nearly thirty orcs here, about that many half-orcs as well. Several had revolvers, and several had shotguns, but the rest had batons and axes and other crude weapons.